


The Gyarufication of Hoshi Shimizu

by Ovipositivity



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bimboification, Burando, Curses, Drama, EGL, Elegant Gothic Lolita, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Gyaru, Gyarufication, Gyaruification, High School, Mind Manipulation, Partial Mind Control, Transformation, bimbofication, bosozoku
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: Hoshi Shimizu has it all. Friends, popularity, and the best collection of Elegant Gothic Lolita dresses this side of Shibuya. But when she crosses paths with freewheeling gyaru Himiko, Hoshi is subject to the dreaded Gal Curse. Now her hair is turning blonde and her skin is tanning all on its own, and her hemlines keep on creeping up higher and higher and higher...
Kudos: 12





	The Gyarufication of Hoshi Shimizu

It only took six words to ruin Himiko’s entire day.

“Excuse me, you’re at our table.”

She groaned inwardly, but took a moment to compose herself before replying. Her perfectly manicured nails clicked against the formica of the tabletop as she turned around. She recognized the voice, and was thus completely unsurprised to see standing over her Hoshi and her cronies.

“Over her” was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. Hoshi was no more than five feet tall in stocking feet, and even the chunky-heeled tea party shoes she wore only brought her up to Himiko’s neck. Himiko drew herself to her feet and looked down at her rival, but to Hoshi’s credit, she maintained fierce eye contact, even though now she had to crane her neck to do so.

Height was only the beginning of their differences. Himiko’s skin was a milky caramel brown, the result of hours spent tanning and applying creams and lotions. Her face was a riot of color, with heavy contouring makeup applied to her cheeks and nose, so light it was almost white in places. Her clothing, too, was bright and colorful, from her Skinny Lip knee-high boots and pleated Alba Rosa micro-miniskirt to the plunging neckline of her Gyda leopard-print top. Even her leather motorcycle jacket had her name stitched on the back in gold thread. Walking alone, she always turned heads, yet when surrounded by the other girls of the Molten Crush Gal Circle, she fit right in.

Hoshi, by contrast, was so pale as to be nearly ghostly. Puffs of pink rouge colored her cheeks, completing the impression of a porcelain doll. The impression was only heightened by her attire: a Classical Puppets petticoat peeked out under the hem of her ruffled black Angelic Pretty jumperskirt, and a pair of dark Metamorphose stockings ensured that not a trace of her legs was visible. Himiko’s hair was a riot of neon curls, but Hoshi’s had been elegantly primped into two perfectly constructed twintails that dangled down on both sides of her head. Miniature bows in black and pink festooned her coal-black locks like the diminutive offspring of the gigantic bow in the small of her back. Behind her, her gaggle of similarly-dressed lolita girls milled about, clutching their elegant Innocent World handbags and tittering behind their fingers.

The two women had just three things in common. First, they both wore heavy eyeliner, which accentuated their eyes and made them seem huge and round. Second, they were both enraged and breathing hard in an effort to keep their cool. And third, they had both apparently reserved the Cherry Blossom Mall food court for their latest meetup.

“Ladies! Can I help you?” A mall security guard hopped off his Segway and stepped up next to the two of them. His eyes flickered from the petite, adorable Hoshi to the tall and imposing Himiko. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Hoshi turned to look at him with a look of triumph on her face. “The _trouble_ , officer, is that I clearly reserved this food court for my group’s tea party today, and these… these… _gyaru_ took it instead!”

“Is that true?” the officer asked, looking up at Himiko. The taller girl cursed under her breath. She _knew_ she’d forgotten something.

“No problem, officer,” Himiko said, snatching her oversized D.I.A. bag off the table. “We were just leaving.” She snapped her fingers, her long press-on nails clicking together, and her fellow gals rose to their feet. She could see them grumbling and complaining out of the corner of her eye, and her gaze turned back to Hoshi. The little lolita bitch was wearing a shit-eating grin as she thanked the mall cop for his help. She must have felt Himiko’s stare of hatred, because she turned back around and flashed her an even smarmier smile.

“Better luck next time, _ogyaru_ ,” she said, and giggled.

Himiko fumed all the way to the parking lot.

***

“Well! I’m _so_ sorry about that, girls!” Hoshi said, settling into her place at the head of the table and allowing herself a little smirk of triumph. In truth, she felt a little bad for the poor _gyaru_ … but only a little. She _had_ followed the rules, after all, registering her event with the mall’s customer service desk. It wasn’t her fault that the gal circle hadn’t bothered. They really only had themselves to blame.

It was so like them. Hoshi was well aware of how outsiders could mix up elegant gothic lolitas, like herself, with some of frillier of the _gyaru_ that hung around the mall. That confusion wasn’t the gals’ fault, but she couldn’t help resenting them for it. They were so… so… tasteless! Loose girls with high hemlines and low necklines, showing off cleavage and thigh to anyone who passed by! Lolita fashion, by contrast, was about elegance and modesty, about looking fashionable _without_ looking easy. The _gyaru_ at her school smoked in the bathroom and made rude hand gestures as she walked by, but she always ignored them. They were probably just going home to drink alcohol and have sex with their _bōsōzoku_ boyfriends. Hoshi, by contrast, would spend hours putting together the perfect coord, sometimes making her own cutsews to sell on Lace Market or show off on social media. She was a good girl who always minded her studies, and someday she’d own her own fashion boutique.

And there would be no _gyaru_ allowed. It would be the first rule of the shop, written on a big sign under the entrance: no cigarette-smoking, boot-wearing, cleavage-displaying, slutty, loud, rude _gyaru_!

That fantasy always calmed her down, and she opened her eyes and surveyed her companions with a warm smile. All the girls at this meet-up were personally vetted by Hoshi herself or one of her trusted lieutenants. They all wore top-notch brands, coordinated to achieve the maximum in elegance and sophistication. A dozen clutch bags, perfectly picked to match their owners’ dresses and gloves, sat on the formica.

“Well!” she said, her voice as bright and clear. “Who wants tea?”

***

Himiko’s anger followed her home. It was there, hovering over her like a black cloud while she ate dinner, ignoring her mother’s polite questions and her father’s disapproving _hmphs_. Neither of them understood the gal lifestyle, and only their love for their only daughter made them hold their tongues. After dinner, Himiko retired to her room, her anger pulsing and throbbing around her like the beat of a gigantic heart. It wasn’t just one humiliation giving rise to her fury: it was months of them, months of Hoshi’s petty sniping and passive-aggressive comments. Lolita girls were supposed to be polite, demure and sweet, but if Hoshi was typical of the breed, that was just a veneer over a core of selfishness, vanity and spite.

At least gals were honest. They may be rude sometimes, or flashy, but they cared about each other and stuck together. They didn’t snipe at each other on anonymous blogs or spread vicious rumors through the halls of Musashi High School. Himiko flopped onto her big comfortable bed on her back and stared at the ceiling. Resentment and bitterness chased each other around inside her head, around and around, until she felt something inside her _snap_.

Within a minute she was on the phone. Shotaru picked up on the second ring. Himiko approved—he may have been a big shot among his fellow _bōsōzoku_ , but Shotaru knew on which side his bread was buttered when it came to his girlfriend.

“What’s up, Himiko?” he asked. He was using his “talking to angry girlfriend” voice, so Himiko knew he’d already heard about the incident at the mall. It figured. News traveled fast, especially in insular subculture communities.

“Is your aunt still working at the shrine?” she asked.

Shotaru hesitated before answering. “Uh, Fujiko oba-san? I think so. We don’t talk to her much,” he admitted.

“Does she still do that weird stuff with the paper tags?” Himiko vaguely remembered hearing about Shotaru’s weird aunt at a family gathering a few months ago. For whatever reason, the family did not seem enthusiastic about her, despite the honor her position as an _itako_ entailed.

“The curse stuff? Uh, yeah, that’s why we don’t talk to her,” Shotaru said. “Listen, Himiko, I heard about the mall. I’m sorry that Hoshi was such a bitch to you. Me and the boys were thinking—”

“Never mind about that,” Himiko said. She sounded more cheerful already. In the dark corners of her brain, a plan was starting to come together. “Give me your aunt’s number, will you?”

“Are you sure?” Shotaru sounded nervous. That by itself was somewhat extraordinary. Almost nothing ruffled an experienced _bōsōzoku_ ’s feathers.

“Sure I’m sure.” Himiko smiled. “Why don’t you come over here and give it to me in person? My parents are going out to a work function tonight.”

After she hung up, she rolled over onto her stomach and stared at the far wall, a grin slowly spreading across her face. She had a plan, all right. Oh, yes. And Shotaru would be here soon. There was more than one way to blow off steam.

***

By the time Monday rolled around, Hoshi had entirely forgotten her encounter with the gal circle at the mall. Her tea party had been a smashing success, of course, and her position as the pre-eminent lolita in the area was just about assured. _And_ she had a Taobao order arriving in the mail this week! All in all, things were looking up, and so she walked into her first period classroom with her head held high. The school uniform constrained her ability to dress as she pleased just a bit, but she wore a discreet crinoline under her skirt and had tied a couple of ribbons in her hair, and the envious looks she got from bystanders told her that they were working.

She sat down at her desk a minute or two early and reached inside to retrieve her pencils. As she did, she felt a sharp lance of pain in her fingertip, as though something had stung her. She yanked her hand back and stared in distress. A single, tiny bead of blood welled from her fingertip. She let out a little yelp of surprise and sucked at it. A couple of nearby students turned to stare at her, but most of them were intent on their own work.

Had she stabbed her finger on a sharpened pencil? She opened her desk wider and peeked inside. No, there was something else… something lodged in between her pencil case and her notebook. She reached in gingerly and fished it out, careful not to cut herself further.

From the pain in her finger, she’d expected a razor blade or similar. Instead she found a small, cream-colored card, about the size of a business card. Apparently she’d given herself a paper cut on one of its edges. She could see the reddish smear. She turned the card over. One side was blank, but someone had inked black _kanji_ on one side. Not well, the lines were shaky at best, but clear enough. It read:

_I DRINK YOUR BLOOD AND LAY ON YOU  
THE DREADED GAL CURSE!_

_Himiko!_ Hoshi looked up and was utterly unsurprised to see Himiko staring at her from across the room. The _gyaru_ —now dressed almost identically to Hoshi in their _seifuku_ shirts and skirts—had a rapt expression on her face, one part anticipation and one part fear. Hoshi glared at her and shook her injured finger.

 _That’s your big revenge?_ she thought. _A little card in my desk? Some curse!_ She made sure Himiko was watching her, then slowly and deliberately tore the card in half. She let the pieces fall into her desk and finished retrieving her pencils. It figured that the _gyaru’s_ revenge would be as amateurish as her style. Hoshi opened her textbook, looked up at the teacher, and prepared for class. By the lunch period she’d entirely forgotten about the creepy little card.

***

It took a few hours for Himiko to get the last of the butterflies out of her stomach. There had been a moment, one dreadful moment, when Hoshi had made eye contact with her and Himiko had been certain that the other girl _knew_. She knew everything. She knew about Himiko’s trip to the shrine and her long, strange conversation with Shotaru’s aunt, kneeling uncomfortably on that warped wooden floor while the pungent incense smoke stung her eyes.

The old woman was indeed crazy, but the way she talked about curses and spirits made Himiko actually believe in them. And when near-blind old _oba-san_ had offered to prick Himiko’s thumb with a long needle and mix the blood into ink to create a “curse _ofuda_ ,” Himiko had actually taken her up on it. Even now, long after the tiny pinprick had closed up, her thumb still throbbed.

But there was no way Hoshi could know about any of that, and when she ripped up the _ofuda_ and tossed the pieces into her desk, Himiko actually relaxed a bit. Now that the wretched thing was gone, she started to feel a bit silly. She’d wanted revenge against the lolita girls, of course, but this was childish. Real adults got their revenge on social media, not through crazy old-lady magic.

By the end of the day, she was already planning the perfect Instagram post to put that snooty bitch Hoshi in her place. The pain in her thumb faded gradually to nothing, and she put the _ofuda_ out of her mind.

***

The rest of the week passed in a blur for Hoshi. As per usual, the imminent arrival of a new dress commanded her complete attention. Every day after school she logged on to the package tracking portal to trace its progress. It seemed to be inching closer, one town at a time, but by Friday morning the portal had updated to say _Out for Delivery._

School that day was an exercise in torture. Every class period seemed to drag out endlessly. Halfway through the day, Hoshi found herself itching madly at her scalp and arms. The itching grew so distracting that she went to the bathroom to examine herself in the mirror, but of course she found nothing wrong. It was just anticipation, crawling invisibly over her skin.

She squinted into the mirror and shook her head disapprovingly. The overhead fluorescents were near the end of their lifespan. In their buzzing, dimming light, her porcelain-pale skin looked a bit darker than normal. She’d been in a hurry that morning and had not had time to complete her makeup routine—her powder was a bit thinner than normal.

At the sound of the last bell, she practically leapt out of her seat. Normally she’d take her time cleaning up and leaving school, holding court for her fellow EGL lovers on the front steps or planning weekend tea meetups. Now all she could think about was getting home to her new dress.

She burst in the front door at a dead run. Her mother was waiting in the kitchen. “How was school, dear?” she asked, but Hoshi was in no mood.

“Where is it?” she asked. She did not have to specify.

Her mother smiled indulgently. Hoshi was such a good girl, so polite and demure, and so when she occasionally forgot herself it was easy to forgive her.

“I left the package on your bed, sweetie,” she said. “Remember, dinner is at six!”

Hoshi mumbled something that might have been an acknowledgment as she barreled past. She ran up the stairs two at a time and tossed herself into her room.

Finally, in her inner sanctum, she let herself relax. No outsider had ever been allowed into her room, but anyone who knew Hoshi wouldn’t have been surprised at what they saw. The room was a temple to lolita fashion. Its walls were pastel pink, with a faint floral pattern. Tea lights circled her ceiling, and her walls were papered with cutouts from Gothic & Lolita Bible, Girlism, FRUiTS, and KERA.

One corner of her room was given over to a large vanity, its desk covered in powder palettes and tubes of makeup. Hoshi sat down and turned on the overhead lamp, then filled her brush with her palest powder. She’d spent much of the back half of the day worrying about her makeup. She thought she’d had time this morning, but apparently not—her skin was much darker than its ordinary pale ivory, its tone much warmer. She fidgeted with the brush for a while, but no matter how much she added, she couldn’t quite achieve her typical look. She brushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes and stood up with a frustrated grunt.

She’d put it off long enough. It was time to unveil her cute new dress!

She’d planned to make an unboxing video this time, but the problems with her makeup had left her flustered and she could wait no longer. She carefully cut the box open and lifted out the one-piece dress.

Her heart leapt into her throat. It was, if anything, _more_ perfect than she’d expected. More elegant. More stylish. Two pink ribbons laced up either side of the bodice. Lacy frills decorated the chest and shoulders. The hemline was perfectly ruffled, and the large bow at the waist held the whole thing together. It was one of the most beautiful dresses she’d ever owned—one of the most beautiful dresses she’d ever _seen_ —and she had to have it on at once.

For an amateur, properly dressing oneself in the elegant lolita style was time-consuming and difficult. Many girls needed someone’s help to fully lace up their dresses and tie their bows. Hoshi was no amateur, though, and she could swap from demure _seifuku_ to headbow, petticoat, socks and dress in less time than it took her mother to brush her hair. The dress felt even better on her than it had looked. It hung perfectly, swaying side to side when she sashayed to and fro. It was light, airy, clinging just the right amount, leaving her fully covered and modest while still looking elegant and beautiful.

It was _hot_. It was uncomfortably hot, in fact. Spring had not yet turned to summer, but Hoshi’s room was on the second floor, and her windows were tightly closed against intrusive sounds from the outside world. She found herself sweating under her powder. The dress was fine, she told herself, it was perfect, it was just a hot day, that was all. She labored to the window and opened it a crack.

That helped… a little. She sagged back onto her bed, panting. She was still overheating, and the dress felt uncomfortably clingy. She was being silly, she knew, but she felt almost… claustrophobic. Like she was being constricted. She’d always loved that feeling, the tightness of the ribbons and bows, but now it felt uncomfortably pinchy.

Hoshi had planned to go for a little walk when the new dress arrived, just around the block to show it off. Her neighbors were very familiar with her fashion and style and usually had appreciative things to say about a new coord. Right now, though, she could barely imagine crossing the room in this dress, let alone walking outside with it. A distressing thought popped into her head: _have I gained weight?_

The dress didn’t feel tight, exactly. It fit perfectly. But the feeling of layer after layer of petticoat and cotton—a familiar feeling which had always made her feel comfortable and protected—now seemed stifling. She wiggled out of the dress and found herself breathing easier at once.

Disappointment clung to her like a shroud. She’d been looking forward to the dress for weeks, and now that it was here all she could think about was how constricted she’d felt. Still, stress could do things to a person, and she’d been stressed enough at school. There were exams, of course, but looming in the near distance was the great Summer Tea Party.

Every year the honor of arranging the first lolita tea party of the summer went to the most glamorous, elegant girl in their community. Hoshi had been runner-up twice before, but this year she’d secured the honor. She was excited, of course, but she was also terribly nervous. Lolitas were known to be perfectionists, and when something or some _one_ fell short of their lofty standards, they could be terribly cruel. She had picked out a location and theme and had started arranging decorations and catering, but it was a lot to juggle, especially on top of schoolwork. That was why last weekend’s party at the mall had been so important—Hoshi needed lots of practice as a hostess. _And those nasty gyaru almost ruined it_.

That was the problem, she decided. She was out of sorts because she was nervous about the Summer Tea Party. Well, she’d known what she was getting herself in for when she put forward her name for consideration, and she felt confident that she was up to the challenge. She sat back down at the vanity and made eye contact with her reflection.

 _You can do this, Hoshi_ , she told herself. _You are the prettiest. You are the most fashionable. You are the most charming, elegant and stylish lolita in the entire prefecture, and come this June, everyone will know it._

She took in a deep breath, held it, exhaled. She _could_ do this. And once she did, all her worries would melt away.

She was about to get up when something caught her eye. She was always careful about her hair, maintaining its shine and styling it to match her outfits. It was thick, dark and shiny… most of the time. But one errant strand seemed to be popping out. Was it… grey?

For a moment, fear gripped her heart. Going grey already? Stress could do that, too, but you couldn’t show up at a lolita meet with grey hair. She teased the strand out from the rest of her hair and examined it closely. No, it wasn’t grey, though the color absolutely stood out from the rest of her hair. It was golden blonde.

She squinted at it. Blonde? Was that a thing? Could stress turn your hair blonde? She imagined it could—the idea made as much sense as any other. She carefully cut out the strand and let it fall onto her desk top. It was certainly strange, but there wasn’t really anything to be done about it. She shrugged and went over to her closet.

There were other outfits in there, dozens of them, coords she’d painstakingly put together one piece at a time. She selected one that was a little less covering than the frilly Chinese dress and put it on—blouse, skirt, panier, shoes. This outfit was modest, of course, but it showed a little more leg, a little more neck. Somehow, that helped. Her skin could breathe. Feeling better—and much more fashionable—she went down to dinner.

***

Himiko wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Nothing, probably. Nothing was the safest bet. But when Hoshi arrived at school on Monday, it was all she could to keep from gasping.

The Lolita had always favored a pale look—unhealthy, to Himiko’s eyes, like the pallor of a corpse. There was still some paleness around her eyes, but now her cheeks blossomed with color. Some lolitas favored heavy red and pink rouge that made them look a little bit like dolls, but not Hoshi. Her color was _everywhere._ Her normally-pale skin was several shades darker than typical, and Himiko wondered briefly if this was her natural tone.

There was something else about her, too, something harder to put her finger on. The Hoshi Himiko was used to had been a shy, demure little thing, always ducking and flinching away from people in the halls. At least, right up until she cornered you with a devious look on her face and a teacher (or gaggle of sycophants) at her shoulder. This Hoshi held her head high. She made eye contact. She carried with her a sort of confidence that Himiko had never seen from her before.

Time seemed to slow as the two of them passed each other in the hall. Hoshi strode past no more than three feet away, murmurs of astonishment trailing in her wake. She looked around just as she passed Himiko and smirked.

“What are you looking at, _gyaru_?” she hissed.

Himiko’s jaw dropped. She had absolutely no rejoinder. Hoshi sniffed and looked away with a victorious expression on her face. Before Himiko could summon a snappy response, the other girl was gone.

The two of them avoided each other as a matter of course, but today Himiko felt positively cowed. She ate lunch in one corner of the room with the girls of the Molten Crush Gal Circle. Even here, among her closest friends, she couldn’t escape Hoshi. The lolita girl’s new look was the topic du jour.

“Did you see her eyes?”

“Forget her eyes, did you see her _makeup_? When was the last time she was darker than a piece of paper?”

“What about her hair?”

“What about it? Looks the same, don’t it?”

“No, there was a blonde streak! I swear!”

They all giggled as though it was the funniest thing in the world. Himiko couldn’t bring herself to join them. Of course, sharing juicy gossip was a foundational part of the gal circle (a cynical observer might have said it was the primary reason to form such circles in the first place), but all Himiko could think about was the damn _ofuda_.

She’d just wanted to put a scare into Hoshi, that was all. Just knock her off her high horse a little. Like all lolitas, the girl was always so _superior_. Like anyone who didn’t put on two petticoats every morning was beneath her. She’d tried explaining all this to the old _miko_ , but the woman had just stared toward the sound of her voice with an intensity Himiko found disturbing.

“This girl, your enemy,” Fujiko had said, her toothless mouth gumming at the words and making them come out strange and garbled. “You want to destroy her?”

“Destroy her?” Himiko had asked. She blinked in surprise. The incense in here was very strong and made it hard to think. “No, I just want to teach her a lesson. She thinks she’s so much better than me. She looks at gals like we’re the gum she scraped off the bottom of her boot.”

“Gals?” the old woman had asked, cocking her head quizzically. “What do you mean?”

It had all come out then, the whole story: gal fashion, the Molten Crush Gal Circle, Himiko and her lolitas, and the finer points of alternative fashion subculture. It felt, frankly, embarrassing, explaining all this to a demented old woman, but Himiko had taken two trains to get to the shrine and she wasn’t about to leave empty-handed.

Fujiko had just listened until the girl trailed off. There had been a long, long moment of silence, and then the old woman had smiled.

“I can help you, little gal,” she’d said, her lips curving up into a nauseating grin. “Give me your finger, and we shall begin.”

“Himiko?” Akimi’s voice broke the memory, and Himiko blinked rapidly in surprise. It took her a moment to realize that the rest of the girls at the table were staring at her. She managed a halfhearted smile.

“I’m sorry, Akimi,” she said. “What was that?”

“We just wanted to know what you think of Hoshi? She’s acting real funny, isn’t she?”

“I think she’s losing it!” piped up Hina, the youngest member of their circle. “All these lolitas are nuts! The bows cut off the circulation to their brains!”

The rest of the circle laughed, and Himiko joined them. “You’re probably right, Hina,” she said. “Or maybe she got mud on her tea party shoes and lost her mind.”

As the sound of teenage giggles filled the air, Himiko relaxed a little. Her visit to the shrine was already fading, feeling more and more like a dream. And so what if Hoshi was a little bit out of sorts today? That was precisely what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

***

Hoshi herself, meanwhile, didn’t feel out of sorts at all. She felt _great_. She was bursting with energy, far more than normal, and as soon as the second class ended she threw her books into her bag and headed for the door.

“Hoshi, wait!” She turned to see Yui waving at her. Yui was one of the pre-eminent _hime lolitas_ in the prefecture, and she had been Hoshi’s biggest rival to host the Summer Tea Party. Theirs was a friendly rivalry, at least; they’d known each other since childhood and had always encouraged each other’s interest in fashion. Yui, a gracious girl, had taken her defeat in stride and was helping Hoshi pull everything together for the party.

“What is it, Yui?” Hoshi asked. She’d meant the question to be friendly, but her tone was a bit sharper than she’d intended, and she saw the other girl flinch back.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to meet after Calligraphy Club?” Yui asked. “We should talk about the photographers for the Tea Party. There are a half-dozen we could use…”

“Another time, Yui!” Hoshi said. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was blowing off her friend—just that the idea of spending another hour after club time poring over pricing charts seemed impossibly boring right now.

She didn’t wait for a response, but turned and practically skipped out the schoolhouse door.

The next morning, she made sure to wake up bright and early. She wanted to sleep in a bit, but her morning makeup routine was taking longer and longer. No matter how thick she laid on the powder, she seemed to be getting darker each day. She’d picked up a new brand the day before and sat down with her puff in her hand, ready to take as long as needed to put together her ordinary pale look.

It seemed to be working around her eyes, at least. The powder took there, leaving her as pale as ever. Her cheeks, though, remained stubbornly dark, no matter how many layers she applied. Her forehead too. She fumbled with the brush and felt it slip out of her fingers. Bending over, she found herself having trouble picking it up.

She pulled back her hands and examined them. Her nails had grown half a centimeter, seemingly overnight.

 _I just trimmed them!_ she thought angrily. As a lolita, she took pride in her short, even nails. Was this some kind of weird late-teen-years growth spurt? She grabbed the file off her desk and filed them all down to normal.

Nor were her nails the only thing growing. Hoshi’s bust had never been more than modest, and to tell the truth, she preferred it that way. Most lolita dresses fit best on flat or near-flat chests, and overly endowed girls trying to wear lolita often fell victim to the dreaded “boobloaf.” Hoshi’s breasts were small, pert, and well-formed, reasonable enough that she could not go braless but not so massive as to draw unwanted attention.

At least, normally. They’d grown in when she was 14 and had remained at the current size for years, but now they seemed to be getting a second wind. She found herself spilling out over the edge of even her most elastic bras. Going braless was not an option, either. Her nipples, once shy and inverted, stuck out shamelessly, visible even through her thickest sweater.

She managed to wrangle her swollen tits into the restraint of an ancient bra, its fabric stretched almost into shapelessness, and tossed her baggiest uniform shirt on over it. She couldn’t exactly hide her growth spurt, but at least now it wasn’t obvious from across the room. _This weekend_ , she told herself, _I’ll buy new bras. And I should lay off the chocolate_.

That had to be it, she reasoned. She was putting on weight. She ignored the fact that her arms were as slim and trim as ever, that her stomach was as flat as an ironing board. If she _had_ been gaining weight, one hundred percent of it had gone to her boobs.

Well, not quite. Her bottom was a bit rounder too, and wriggling into her uniform skirt was a bit of a challenge. As she wrestled with the waistband, she reflected on the irony. Wouldn’t most girls kill for this shape? The vaunted hourglass? Hoshi wanted nothing to do with it—she’d liked her body just the way it was, adapted seemingly perfectly to the elegant lines of lolita fashion—but whatever was happening to her was happening with or without her permission.

Her clothing-related misadventures had taken up more time than she had realized, and her makeup still wasn’t done. She sat down in front of her vanity and studied herself. What she saw didn’t exactly please her: her skin was far too dark, far too warm. Getting to her usual cool ivory would be impossible.

There was nothing for it. The clock was ticking, and she would be late for school. She decided to focus on her eyes instead—the makeup had worked there, so maybe she could draw attention to that part of her face? She pulled out a mascara brush and blinked into the mirror.

Did she even need it? Had she applied mascara already and somehow forgotten? Her eyelashes were huge and thick, much spikier than normal. She dabbed at them experimentally with a finger. They almost looked like false lashes of the kind favored by some of her lolita friends, though Hoshi had always privately thought those looked a little low-class. These were hers, though, a hundred percent natural.

She laid down the mascara and stared at herself for a moment. She hadn’t managed to lighten herself as much as she’d hoped, but this was… a look. Yes, it certainly was. It wasn’t her _normal_ look, but with the Summer Tea Party coming up, why not take the opportunity to try out something new? She had to admit that she didn’t hate this.

Whistling happily, she headed out for school, ignoring her mother’s surprised expression. Overhead, the cherry trees were just starting to bloom. Inside Hoshi, something was blooming, too.

The rest of the month flew by. For Hoshi, at least, it felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how consumed with worry she was about the Summer Tea Party until that worry lifted. The Tea Party was still looming, of course, it just seemed… less of a big deal than it had been before. Less essential. Yui was still nagging her about it—her text messages had taken on a petulant and pleading tone—but Hoshi just couldn’t bring herself to care.

Perhaps it was the changing weather. As spring turned into summer, warmth returned to Hoshi’s town, and her outfits changed accordingly. The Taobao dress lurked in the back of her closet, untouched since the day it had arrived, and articles of clothing she hadn’t worn in ages were enjoying a renaissance. Her lolita dresses, once her pride and joy, gathered dust on their hangers. When she did dress up to go out, these days she favored less elaborate outfits, with higher hemlines and brighter colors. Some of her old cutsews—tops that she hadn’t worn in years, tops she thought she’d outgrown—re-entered her rotation. They were lighter, breezier, and she couldn’t help but notice they showed off more of her shape.

Her mother didn’t seem happy about this. Hoshi thought this was rather unfair—her mother hadn’t been all that happy when her daughter had developed an intense interest in expensive clothing, but now that she was dressing down again, she still seemed to disapprove. But, as it turned out, it wasn’t the clothing at all.

“What is going on with your skin, Hoshi?” her mother asked one afternoon in late April. “Do you have a rash?”

Hoshi looked down at her arms. She couldn’t deny it—there was _something_ going on there. Her skin was darkening by the day. She’d entirely given up on the white powder, choosing instead to accentuate the golden glow of her cheeks with contouring techniques she’d learned on YouTube. It wasn’t very Lolita, but it felt right.

“I’ve been getting more sun, mama,” she said. “I have a tan, I guess.”

“That’s not a tan,” her mother said. She sounded worried. “I’m making you an appointment with the dermatologist. This can’t be healthy.”

Hoshi scoffed. Her mother was such a worrywart! “Mom, it’s just a little tan!” she protested. “You don’t have to make such a big deal out of everything all the time!”

“Hoshi!” her mother sounded scandalized. “Since when do you talk to your mother that way?”

Since when, indeed? Hoshi had always been such a quiet and respectful child. She wondered this for a moment herself, before a spark of defiance inside her pushed its way up.

“Fine, I’ll go to the doctor,” she sulked, crossing her arms. “If it’s such a _big deal_ to you.”

Her mother turned away, shaking her head and muttering about disobedient girls. Hoshi snatched her bag off the table and stomped off to her room. _Good thing I haven’t told her about my hair and nails,_ she thought. The latter were still growing faster than ever; she had to file them twice a day to keep them from turning into claws, and _that_ certainly couldn’t be normal. Her hair, meanwhile, had grown in thicker than ever, and just dragging a brush through it these days proved challenging. More of those blonde hairs had appeared, too, though so far they seemed content to intersperse themselves among her ordinary black. Hoshi figured she could pick up some dye while she was out to restore her natural color… though the idea of just bleaching her whole head had a certain forbidden appeal. Her mother would hit the ceiling if she did that, though.

Maybe later.

***

The dermatologist hemmed and hawed, examining Hoshi’s skin and then referring back to old pictures of her that her mother had provided.

“Do you feel odd at all?” he asked her. “Itchy? Any heat on your skin? How does it feel in direct sunlight?”

“Normal,” Hoshi replied. Her heart fluttered a little. The dermatologist was younger than she’d expected, with a strong jaw and bright, kind eyes behind his glasses. Every time he touched her, she felt a little funny. She’d never so much as held hands with a boy, but looking at this doctor put thoughts in her head… strange thoughts, thoughts that would normally bring a blush to her cheeks, but appealing nonetheless.

She shook them off with some difficulty. “What’s going on, doctor?” she asked. “Am I sick?”

The dermatologist stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll want to run some blood tests,” he said, “and perhaps later an X-ray. But I don’t think you’re in any danger.”

“What, then?” Hoshi lifted one arm and turned it this way and that. She could not deny it: her skin was noticeably darker than it had been before, as though she’d spent hours crisping in the sun.

“It might be a rare form of vitiligo,” the doctor said. “Have you heard of that?”

Hoshi hadn’t, but she recoiled from the pictures the doctor showed her. “Am I going to look like that? Like a cow?”

He shook his head. “No, the presentation is very unusual. Notice that these women are lightening, not darkening. And the patterning comes in blotches. Yours is universal—well, almost.” He pointed at her face. “It looks like the area around your eyes and the bridge of your nose are still quite pale. Do those feel any different than the rest of you?”

Hoshi massaged the indicated area with her fingertips. “It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “It doesn’t itch or anything. Feels normal.”

“Hm.” The doctor looked down at the photos again, then laid them on the table. “We’ll take some blood for testing, if that’s alright with you,” he said. “We might be able to treat the condition with cream or phototherapy.” He favored her with a reassuring smile, and Hoshi’s heart fluttered a bit. “I think it’s a problem with your body’s pigmentation. It might explain the changes to your hair, as well. You’re not dyeing it, right?”

“No!” Hoshi reached up self-consciously. The blonde hairs had converged into a blonde streak that stood out like a racing stripe.

“Well, that’s a very unusual presentation, as I said, but it does suggest that whatever is happening may be related to the vitiligo process. We can get those tests taken care of and maybe I’ll be able to prescribe something to help you.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Hoshi said, swinging down off the table and slipping her shoes back on. She winced. Lately, walking in her flats had become somewhat uncomfortable—on top of everything else that was going on, she thought she might have fallen arches.

The doctor told her to wait for her name to be called so the nurses could draw blood. Hoshi sat, kicking her dangling legs and trying not to look at any of the other patients. They were staring at her, she could tell. She looked bizarre: black hair with a single blonde streak, rich golden skin everywhere but around her eyes and the bridge of her nose. She almost looked like one of those damn _gyaru_. She’d dressed modestly for this visit, but even knee-length skirts felt uncomfortably heavy and warm these days, and sweat trickled down her back. To distract herself from the sensation of eyes staring at her, she rifled through the magazines on the waiting room table.

A copy of _Tulle_ caught her attention. She reached down to grab it, but her hand dislodged a fishing magazine, which slipped off the table. Beneath it was a copy of _Egg_.

Hoshi stared. A pair of smiling _gyaru_ winked at her from the cover of _Egg_ , both wearing baseball caps, crop tops and micro-miniskirts. Their red-gold hair spilled down their shoulders in untamed ringlets. Hoshi’s heart leapt into her throat. There was something about those girls that called to her, something wild and untamed. One of them was holding a _cigarette_. Moving slowly, barely daring to breathe, she retrieved the copy of _Egg_ and held it on her lap. It seemed to pulse with its own warmth like a beating heart. She reached out with trembling fingertips and began to read.

***

“Have you seen her today?”

There was no need for Himiko to ask Akimi for clarification. These days, _her_ only referred to one person. Hoshi was the talk of the school, and nowhere was her ongoing metamorphosis a hotter topic than among the Molten Crush Gal Circle.

Himiko was sick of it. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve this. Well, that wasn’t quite true… her visit to Shotaru’s mad old auntie remained a vivid memory, but Himiko refused to draw a line of cause and effect there. Curses weren’t real. Magic wasn’t real. Fujiko _oba-san_ was a toothless, beyond-nearsighted old crone whose brain had rotted out thanks to huffing too much incense, and her stupid _ofuda_ had just been a childish prank.

 _Something_ was going on with Hoshi, that was for certain. She’d taken to wearing high heels to school—not the chunky-heeled tea party shoes favored by the lolitas, but true stilettos that added at least three inches to her height. Such shoes were far outside uniform regulation, but the whisper was she’d gotten special dispensation from the nurse’s office. They were orthopedic, apparently, special shoes for arch support.

Himiko thought that was bullshit. Who ever heard of orthopedic stiletto heels? But the school administration had accepted it, and Himiko couldn’t gainsay them.

“What about her, Akimi?” she asked. She really didn’t want to know, but she knew the other girls weren’t going to stop talking about Hoshi anytime soon, and she might as well rip the bandage off.

“Her skirt! I can’t believe she’s walking around like that!” Akimi tittered behind her hand. “She’s going to get in so much trouble!”

Himiko rolled her eyes and made an excuse to head to class early. Lately, even her interactions with the gals of Molten Crush had been less fun than normal. They no longer seemed to want to discuss fashion or their plans for weekend trips to Harajuku. These days it was just Hoshi, Hoshi, Hoshi.

But when the girl herself finally made her appearance in class, Himiko had to admit to herself that her appearance was in fact newsworthy. She’d pinned her skirt up with safety pins, revealing several inches of bare thigh. This by itself wasn’t unheard of—Himiko and her fellow gals had done it occasionally, when they were feeling particularly daring. But they’d only pulled their hemlines up by an inch or two. Hoshi’s skirt had come up nearly by half, leaving a vast expanse of uncovered flesh between the tops of her long socks and the pleated edge of her skirt. Her skin, normally pale as cream, was caramel-dark, a rich gold that Himiko herself couldn’t have achieved with months of tanning sessions.

Even the teacher seemed momentarily taken aback by Hoshi’s daring. His eyes darted to her legs, then up to her face, and color bloomed in his cheeks. Hoshi took her time crossing the floor and sat at her desk with an insouciant smirk, as though daring her teacher to say something. His mouth opened and closed silently for a moment, then he sagged in defeat. Himiko couldn’t believe it. Was Hoshi going to _get away_ with this?

“Good morning, teacher,” Hoshi said, her tone as respectful and polite as ever. She laced her fingers beneath her chin and tilted her head to one side, fluttering her elongated eyelashes.

“G-good morning, Hoshi,” the teacher said. He drew in a sharp, deep breath. “Well! Shall we begin?”

Himiko suffered through the day somehow. The sound of Hoshi’s ridiculous heels on the tile floor set her off every time she heard it. She grew to dread the clicking, and the whispered conversations that it brought on in its wake.

“Is that…”

“Did she…”

“How could…”

Finally, interminably, the last bell set Himiko free. She threw her books into her bag, took a deep breath, and decided to skip Film Club. The club president wouldn’t be happy… but given that Himiko had only joined the club in the first place to have a quiet place to smoke after class, maybe she wouldn’t mind so much.

Instead, she made her way out behind the school, slipping past the fieldhouse, to the auxiliary parking lot. As she’d expected, Shotaru was leaning against his motorcycle in the far corner of the lot with a cigarette in his mouth and a compact mirror in his hand. His other hand held a jar of hair cream, but he wasn’t applying it. Instead, he appeared to be deep in conversation…

…with Hoshi!

Himiko stomped across the parking lot, only an effort of will preventing her from breaking out into a humiliating sprint. Both Shotaru and Hoshi turned to look at her when she was halfway there. The _bosozoku’s_ expression was genially confused; the girl’s was devious and sly, her ridiculous lashes fluttering.

“Hello, Himiko,” Shotaru said as she approached. “Hoshi was—”

“I was just leaving,” Hoshi said. She nodded at Himiko and turned to Shotaru. “Talk to you later, Shota-kun.” With a waggle of her hips that was too insolent to be accidental, she departed. Shotaru’s eyes followed her until Himiko snapped her fingers a few inches from his face.

“Wha—” he turned to look at her. “What’s up, Himiko?”

“I don’t know, _Shota-kun_ ,” she said, lacing her words with acid derision. “What _is_ up? What were you two talking about?”

“Chill out, Himiko, ok?” Shotaru said, holding up his hands defensively. “She was just asking me about my bike, that’s all.”

“Just your bike, huh?” Himiko turned and spat onto the asphalt. “What, were you going to take her for a ride?”

“It’s not like that, I swear!” Shotaru let out a nervous little chuckle. “You know I don’t go for those annoying lolita girls!”

“Does _that_ look like a lolita to you?” Himiko pointed in the direction Hoshi had disappeared. “Look at her! She looks like a porn star!”

“Heh, that’s true,” Shotaru said. He sheepishly stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I guess maybe she should join the Molten Crush Gal Circle, huh?”

It was the worst thing he could have said. Himiko’s anger, which had just begun to fade, roared back to life. “What’s wrong with you, you pig?!” she exclaimed, walloping him with her handbag. “She’s not gal at all! You don’t know anything!” Each sentence was punctuated with a _whap_ , and it was all Shotaru could do to defend himself. “Being a gal is about being fashionable! It’s about freedom to dress and act the way you want! It’s not about just being the biggest slut you can be! Is that what you think of us?”

Shotaru’s hand shot out and caught her flailing wrist, and for a moment, they stood frozen. “All right, all right!” he said, panting hard. “I’m sorry I said that! But you know, this is your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?” Himiko swayed as if slapped. “How can you say that? Have I been a bad girlfriend to you?”

“No!” he said. “I mean Hoshi acting this weird. You did something to her, didn’t you? You and Fujiko _oba-san_.”

He let her go and stepped back. His eyes narrowed. “I’m not stupid, Himiko. You get mad at Hoshi for kicking you out of the mall, then you ask me to see my crazy old witch of an aunt, and now Hoshi starts acting strange? She’s tanning, too, if you hadn’t noticed! And dyeing her hair!”

“She would never,” Himiko insisted. “She used to tell me that I stank of peroxide after I dyed it.”

“So I suppose it turned blonde all on its own?” he asked. “And she just fell into a vat of self-tanning lotion? You did something weird to her, didn’t you? Admit it!”

Himiko thought for a moment of denying it. But that was pointless. The whole story spilled out of her: her visit to Fujiko’s shrine, the _ofuda_ , the “gal curse.” Shotaru shook his head, as if to question how anyone could be so _stupid_.

“What did you think was going to happen?” he asked. “You can’t mess around with dark forces like that!”

“I dunno!” Himiko wailed. “I just wanted to teach her a little lesson, that’s all! I just wanted her to stop acting so damn superior!”

“Well, it worked,” Shotaru said. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Without a word more, he climbed onto his bike and raised the kickstand. Himiko was left sputtering as he tore out of the parking lot.

***

Hoshi’s cheeks burned. She’d kept her head high as she turned her back on Himiko, but it was all she could do to keep the tears out of her eyes until she’d left the parking lot. As soon as she was out of line of sight she darted behind the sports equipment shed and starting bawling.

What was _happening_ to her? This wasn’t Hoshi at all! She pulled out her compact and stared at herself, turning the little mirror to get a good look from every angle. She was searching, desperately, for any trace of the girl she’d been, any hint of recognition. She was to be disappointed.

Her lolita dresses, accumulated so carefully over months and years, sat forgotten in her closet. She could barely stand the feel of the fabric on her skin. She pulled up old pictures she’d posted on Instagram, pictures that had filled her with pride at the time. Now the smiling girl in those pictures looked like a stranger. She was so tiny, so pale, so shy! Not just a stranger, a strange _child_. She was a woman now, not a little girl, and she wondered why she’d ever spent so much time and effort trying to look like one.

Yet part of her still ached for the beauty of those dresses. Part of her was horrified at her current appearance. _I’m just wearing these heels for my feet, ok?_ she told herself. _I didn’t dye my hair, either, it changed color by itself_.

But she could have dyed it back. She could have bought insoles. She didn’t have to pin up her skirt, or swap out her cute little Artherapie clutch purse for an ostentatious D.I.A. handbag. She’d done those things, though, had done them willingly and happily. There was no line she’d crossed, no indication at any point that she’d gone from _there_ to _here_. It was the accumulated weight of small changes that bowed her down and left her despairing and angry.

That was why she’d talked to Shotaru. The _bōsōzoku_ boys were outcasts by choice, choosing to reject the standards of appearance and behavior that had dictated Hoshi’s life so readily. She thought that, of all people, he might understand what she was going through.

And he had. He’d understood better than she could have imagined. The things he’d told her… her tears dried up, her sorrow withering and blowing away like fine dust. In its place welled up an emotion that Hoshi had been careful to exorcise entirely: anger.

Himiko. She had done this, somehow. Shotaru didn’t know the details, but he knew enough that Hoshi could fill in the broad strokes herself. Somehow, Himiko had become obsessed with her, and when that obsession had curdled into hatred she’d sought revenge. She’d unleashed something on Hoshi, something dark and fearsome, and she probably didn’t even know what she’d done.

“Hoshi?”

For a moment, Hoshi was so wrapped up in self-pity that she didn’t recognize the voice. It took a couple of moments for her to look up.

“Hoshi, is that you?”

Yui stood at the far side of the equipment shed, frozen as though unwilling to come closer. She was wearing _seifuku_ , the pleats in her skirt ironed, a scattering of ribbons in her hair. She’d managed to put a lolita twist on her school uniform, so that it looked elegant and sophisticated rather than just functional.

Hoshi had put her own twist on her uniform, too. She was suddenly acutely conscious of what felt like acres of exposed skin, the absolute territory between the top of her socks and the bottom of her skirt.

“What is it, Yui?” she asked. She tried to take some of the edge out of her voice, but she still sounded accusatory.

The other girl startled backward. “Well, Hoshi, it’s about the Summer Tea Party,” she began. A note of uncertainty entered her voice. “What’s going on with your skirt?”

“Never mind,” Hoshi said, brushing the fabric flat with her hands. “What about the Party?”

“And your makeup…” Yui looked uncertain. “Anyways, the Party is in a month, and you haven’t even sent out the invitations yet!”

“I’ve been a little busy, Yui, sorry,” Hoshi said. And she _was_ sorry. The truth was, she just had such a hard time caring about the Tea Party lately. It seemed so silly a thing to spend time on when she had so much else to worry about.

“I can see that,” Yui replied, and here a note of scorn entered her voice. She was trying to hide it, but not very hard. “We think, given the circumstances, that it would be better if others were allowed to organize the Tea Party from here on out.”

It took a moment for Hoshi to realize what she was saying. “You’re kicking me out?” she asked, incredulous. She’d never heard of such a thing happening before.

“We just think that it would be better if the planning of the Party was put in the hands of someone more committed to it, that’s all,” Yui said. She pursed her lips and looked Hoshi up and down. “You’re still free to attend, of course. As long as you respect the dress code.”

That did it. A rising tide of shame surged up inside Hoshi, squeezing out the tears that had been lingering in the corners of her eyes. With a wordless cry she lunged past Yui, tottering on her ridiculous heels, somehow managing to keep her footing. Her mountain of blonde hair, cascading down her shoulders, bounced and fluttered as she ran. The other girl leapt back with a yelp and fell down, landing hard on her bottom. “Hoshi!” she cried, but Hoshi did not turn around. She ran and ran until school had vanished in the distance.

By the time she calmed down enough to walk, she was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. She could find her way home easily enough, but the idea held little appeal. Lately, her mother’s gaze had become more and more judgmental, especially since Hoshi had stopped trying to keep her nails short. Clipping them twice a day wasn’t enough anymore, even if she brought a file with her to tend them between classes.

Instead, she wandered the streets, peering into the windows of shops. This area was a bit dingier than her neighborhood, a bit more run-down. Every corner seemed to have its own shabby little convenience store, racks of magazines and rows of candy under buzzing fluorescent lights. Hoshi paused at one corner and pressed her hands up against the window. She tried not to look at her splayed-out nails. It wasn’t the length that bothered her—they were about as long as a set of press-ons. It was the color. She hadn’t painted her nails since she was a little girl, and yet they were blotching with crimson, even past her fingertips. She could faintly make out a floral pattern, as though it were growing in.

The idea was ridiculous. Nails didn’t paint themselves.

 _And hair doesn’t dye itself either, but here we are_.

It took her a moment to realize what she was staring at. There was a poster on the inside of the window: a woman, young and beautiful, with blonde hair and tanned skin. She was smiling, a cigarette held rakishly between two perfectly-manicured fingers. She looked so happy, so comfortable.

Hoshi was halfway into the store before she realized what she was doing. A part of her, a tiny part, raged against the rest. _You can’t do this!_ it screamed. _Ladies don’t smoke! What will your mother think?_

Hoshi was past caring what her mother thought. She was past caring about anything at all.

The clerk didn’t seem surprised to be ringing her up. He didn’t even ask for her ID. Good thing, too—the girl on the card, smiling so shyly, had almost entirely vanished. Between the oversized eyelashes and the dangling, feathered blonde hair, Hoshi was unrecognizable. She picked up her purchases in one long-nailed hand and swept them into her bag.

She wasn’t sure where to go. So she didn’t go anywhere. She stood outside the store, fumbling with her package of cigarettes. She wasn’t sure how to open them, but her fingernails were sharp, and it only took a little bit of trial and error to figure it out.

Her first puff almost killed her. She had no idea what to expect, and inhaled far too deeply. Vicious, tarry heat flooded her lungs, scalding her and leaving her coughing and retching. The cigarette tumbled from her fingers and rolled into the gutter. She swayed for a moment, dizzy, before regaining her balance. For a half-second she considered tossing the rest of the cigarettes into the trash, but sheer bloody-minded determination made her pull out another and click the little lighter she’d bought. This time, she inhaled more slowly, savoring the smoke, tasting it on her tongue.

This time, it felt right. She exhaled, blowing out two streams of thin smoke through her nostrils, and felt the buzz creeping up into her brain. Her anxiety faded. It wasn’t just the effect of the nicotine. Something about this… standing outside a store, staring at passersby, smoking a cigarette… something felt _right_. It felt like coming home. In fact…

She slowly lowered herself into a squat. She’d expected the posture to be uncomfortable, but it felt as natural as anything. As natural as smoking. Her legs were spread, her elbows resting on her knees. She folded one arm up and brought the cigarette to her mouth.

This time, the smoke tasted like freedom.

***

The monthly meeting of the Molten Crush Gal Circle had moved to Black Pig Ramen Shop. It was a bit cramped, sure, and the recirculated air smelled of stale pork and sour cabbage, but at least there was always a table for the gals. Himiko wrinkled her nose at the smell as she pushed inside. She reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. That was another advantage of Black Pig: the owner didn’t mind if they smoked inside. He probably couldn’t smell it. The man was halfway to a pig himself.

The other gals rose from the table to greet her. Akimi gave her a hug. She must have noticed that Himiko hadn’t been quite herself lately. The girl hadn’t dared tell anyone about her trip to the shrine, but the guilt had been wearing at her, and she was sure it showed in her face. She hadn’t been sleeping well, either, and there were bags under her eyes that she hadn’t quite been able to cover with makeup.

“Welcome, Himiko!” Akimi said, and the gals of Molten Crush echoed her in chorus. Himiko gave them a wan smile and slid into the seat they’d cleared for her on the bench. She laid her new Egoist bag down next to the other girls’ bags and smiled at the sight of it. A gal alone was just a miscreant; a gal with friends was daring, fashionable and afraid of nothing.

The circle was an informal thing, a chance to meet and greet, to show off new pieces and catch up on gossip. Himiko admired Gilfy boots and MA*RS skirts. She gushed over a tutuHA top her friend Ichika had just bought. She complimented Hina’s eyelashes—the girl had done truly astonishing things with glittery mascara, and Himiko extracted a promise from her to share her secrets.

Gradually, the conversation shifted to school, and here Himiko tensed. She was _certain_ that at any moment someone would mention Hoshi, and everyone would begin talking about her strange transformation. Himiko braced herself. She’d just be quiet when the topic came up, that was all. She’d be quiet and wait for it to pass.

She was ready for the shoe to drop, but it never did. The gals talked about who was dating who, who had been seen canoodling at the movie theater or booking an hour in a love hotel, but never once did they mention Hoshi and her new look. It was as though she had ceased to exist. Gradually, Himiko felt the tension flow out of her spine, and she dared to breathe again.

The meeting was almost over when Akimi tapped her fork against her bowl for attention. “Uh, girls!” she began, and a hush fell over the circle. “There’s one more bit of business to attend to!”

They all looked expectantly up at her. A knot of anticipation formed in Himiko’s stomach. She turned to Akimi, her mouth dry.

“I think it’s time we considered expanding our circle,” Akimi said, heedless of Himiko’s fearful expression. “As you know, Molten Crush is open to anyone who believes in Gal, who lives Gal, and most importantly, who dresses Gal. That’s why I think we should invite Hoshi to join us next time.”

Himiko reeled as though struck. Whatever she’d expected, whatever she’d feared, this was worse. This was a betrayal on every level. What was worse, the rest of the gals didn’t even seem to recognize it. They clapped, cheered, pounded on the table with open palms. Akimi smiled and looked to Himiko. There was no guile on her face, no smirk of triumph. She seemed genuinely proud and happy.

Himiko forced herself to smile back. It felt dreadful.

Afterwards, she let her feet carry her home. No, not home. How could she go back there? How could she return to her room, her walls covered in idol posters, her closet full of top-notch gal brands? She felt like an imposter. No, worse than that. A traitor. Hoshi was the antithesis of everything gal stood for, a stuck-up snooty arrogant superior lolita _brat_ , and thanks to Himiko she was about to be invited into Molten Crush! The one place that had still felt sacrosanct! The one place that had still been _hers_!

And she’d destroy it. Of that, Himiko was sure. Hoshi may have changed her look, may have dyed her hair, but she was the same jealous, back-biting, passive-aggressive little bitch on the inside. If she got into the Molten Crush Gal Circle, she’d smash it up, just to get back at Himiko. Just to punish her.

It took Himiko a moment to realize where she was. She’d been so lost in thought, wallowing so deep in her resentment and fear, that she hadn’t paid attention to where she was going. Her dutiful feet, operating on muscle memory, had taken her past her neighborhood, past the park and the mall and into a run-down part of town. Shabby apartment buildings leaned against each other like wobbling drunks, their paint peeling, their windows staring dull and mute out over the dirty sidewalk. Scrabbly trees grew in the few pockets of dirt by the roadside, their trunks wilted by inattention and the exhaust of the trucks that traveled this way.

She knew this area well. Shotaru’s _bosozoku_ gang kept a clubhouse here, in a garage they rented next to an old warehouse. She’d spent plenty of fun evenings with Shotaru and his friends, drinking and laughing as cigarette smoke filled the air.

Light poured out under the clubhouse door. There was only one bike parked here: Shotaru’s. Himiko practically sobbed with relief. He had been angry with her earlier, and she knew she deserved it, but here was her chance to make things right. She approached the door, raising her hand to turn the knob. She’d tell him everything, she decided. Tell him everything, and apologize, and ask for his help fixing things. He could talk to Fujiko. Get a counter-curse, maybe. Put everything back the way it was.

She laid her hand on the doorknob and hesitated. Did she hear something from in there? A giggle, a hushed whisper? A faint, damp _slap_ , as of skin on skin? She was operating on instinct now, with very little conscious input. She turned the knob, pulled the door open, and froze.

The _bosozoku_ boys hadn’t bothered fully furnishing their clubhouse. There was a bar against one wall, and a half-dozen stools scattered around the room. The opposite wall held a large flat-screen TV that they used for video games or to watch sports. Halfway between the two sat a massive, elderly couch, battered into shapelessness by years of use.

It was in use now, too. The light in the room came from a dangling yellow bulb, hanging naked from its chain. In its dim glow Himiko could see a pair of naked figures writhing on the couch. The one on the bottom was male, with the black buzz-cut common to their _bosozoku_ gang. The one on top was female. Emphatically so. Her figure was lithe, with broad, flaring hips and shapely thighs. Her massive breasts, each seemingly as large as Himiko’s head, swayed to and fro as her body rocked back and forth. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, her mouth hanging open in an expression of ecstasy. A vast tidal wave of blonde hair like a lion’s mane shook with her every motion.

It was Hoshi. And the boy beneath her—she shifted slightly, and Himiko got a good look. It was Shotaru.

Hoshi’s eyes snapped open. She turned to Himiko as if completely unsurprised to see her and gave her a predatory grin. Shotaru’s eyes were closed and his teeth were gritted, as though he were locked in intense concentration, but Hoshi was perfectly alert. She gyrated back and forth, grinding her hips against her partner’s. Sweat trickled down her spine and pooled in the small of her back. It glistened in the lamplight.

Shotaru moaned, and Hoshi’s attention flashed back to him for a moment. Her hips bucked, her butt-cheeks quivered and jiggled. Shotaru’s arm reached out, blind and grasping. Hoshi took it in hand and guided it to her breast, and Shotaru’s fingers sank into her soft and pliable flesh. His thumb brushed across her nipple and she let out a soft cry of pleasure. She tossed her head back, shaking out blonde curls, and turned back to Himiko with a wicked grin on her face.

Himiko stood in the doorway, unable to proceed further. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy, leaden. Her face was blank and slack. Horror tugged the corners of her mouth down, but she made no sound.

Last time, it had taken Hoshi six words to ruin Himiko’s day. Now she could do it in four.

“He’s my boyfriend now.”

Wailing, blinded by tears, Himiko fled.

***

With Himiko gone, Hoshi turned back to her task. In truth, she hadn’t done this to get back at her rival, though the opportunity for revenge was a delicious bonus. Why had she seduced Shotaru? (Not that he’d required much seducing… his gaze had been wandering from her cleavage to her thighs from the moment he’d laid eyes on her).

It was simple. She wanted to.

That was freedom. It was glorious. All these years, she’d thought being a _gyaru_ was just about breaking rules for fun. About dressing like a slut to shock people. But that wasn’t it at all. It was liberating! She dressed sexy because _she wanted to_. She smoked cigarettes because _she wanted to_. And now she was fucking, yes, fucking this boy because _she wanted to_ and because _it felt good._ The old Hoshi had never so much as kissed a boy, had certainly never allowed one to feel her up or rub himself against her. But why? What had she been so afraid of?

This was living! Shotaru’s cock pulsed like an idling motorcycle engine. It was hot inside her, hot like an ember, glowing at her core and sending throbbing waves of heat through her body. Her body molded itself around the cock, squeezing it, _milking_ it with repeated contractions of her slick inner walls. Honey dripped from her wet pussy and left her thighs moist and sticky. She tossed her head back and grinned at the ceiling. She had no way of knowing whether Shotaru was well-endowed or not, but his member inside her certainly seemed large enough. There had been pain, a little bit of it, when he’d slid into her. She’d gasped then, and still felt the ache inside her, dull and distant as a memory. But it had quickly been eclipsed by the pleasure, the feeling of warmth and rightness. This was where he belonged. This was where _she_ belonged.

She ground her hips forward and back, and her pussy made a squishing sound that she found delightfully lewd. Inside her, Shotaru’s bulbous cockhead pressed against a sensitive spot that wrung a gasp of bliss from her throat. To think, she could have been doing this the _whole time_! How often had she judged _gyaru_ for their whorish ways? How often had she turned up her nose when she saw some big-haired gal slipping away from a party, arm-in-arm with her thuggish paramour? What a fool she’d been! _Gyaru_ have more fun, the saying went, but only now was Hoshi realizing just how much fun it could be.

She leaned forward, practically smothering Shotaru with her breasts. More foolishness! To think she’d been proud of her small chest. She’d hidden it away, not daring to let anyone see her treasures, let alone touch them. Now Shotaru’s fingers crawled across her tits, his thumbs circling her areolae and flicking at the firm buds of her nipples. Each touch sent an electric shiver up her spine. Part of the thrill came from the naughtiness, the forbidden nature of their coupling. But it also just felt good! She had never known, never suspected, that her body could create sensations like this.

She increased her tempo, bucking and grinding wildly. Shotaru’s hands slid off her breasts, and she hissed with frustration, but he was just reaching around to hold her by the shoulders. He embraced her and drew her down towards him and their lips met, tongues tangling in a kiss of such passionate intensity that Hoshi momentarily forgot to breathe. She had told Himiko that Shotaru was her boyfriend now, but in that moment, she neither knew nor cared if that was true. What he would be tomorrow didn’t matter. What he had been yesterday didn’t matter. What mattered was who he was now, where he was, what they were doing together. He thrust upward, driving his cock into her with long, powerful strokes. His hips pumped like a piston, driving him ever-deeper, ever-harder. Himiko squealed in surprise and delight. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her tongue lolled out. Her limbs jittered bonelessly.

All of the strength had run out of her; she felt like a ragdoll, a puppet, being jerked back and forth on strings as strong as iron. Her rivalry with Himiko was forgotten. School was forgotten. Everything burned up in the intense heat except for the pleasure, the bliss, the feeling of Shotaru’s strong arms around her and his magnificent cock pounding into her again and again and again.

Her vision went white. She did not realize she was cumming until it was already happening, until her orgasm rolled over her like a breaking wave. It tore through her thoughts and left them scattered, like beached fish gasping for air on baking hot sand. She forgot Himiko. She forgot Yui and the Summer Tea Party. She even forgot Shotaru… she had no need of him, no need of any part but the taut flesh that pulsed inside her like an iron bar dipped in a molten crucible. It was a dense, leaden weight at the core of her, a node of gravitational force that re-centered all sensation around the aching, needy bud of her clit. She ground herself against him, luxuriating in the feel of his coarse pubic hair brushing against her mound. Her lips, as delicate as coral fronds, rubbed against the hardness of his hips. Muscle banded his groin, the curving arch of his Adonis belt forming a ridge of tightness. Hoshi pushed herself onto that ridge, not caring about the little flares of pain. They were nothing but sparks, embers next to the inferno of her pleasure.

She was dimly aware of Shotaru shifting beneath her. His fingers closed around her breasts and he squeezed harder than before. Her supple flesh shifted and jiggled in response, and now there was more pain, a crushing pain as he bore down. Yet in the space between her drawing in breath to cry out and opening her mouth, a strange thing happened. Her pain shifted, transmuted, wriggling like a silver-bright fish on the end of a line. When she cried out in a high-pitched, fluting voice, it was not in pain but in ecstasy.

“Oh! OH! SHOTARU! SHOTARUUU!” They were alone in the clubhouse, but right then Hoshi wouldn’t have cared if there were a dozen _bosozoku_ clustered around. Her fears, her anxieties, all dropped away. In fact, let them come. The fantasy filled her mind: a dozen boys, two dozen, standing around, sweat dripping from their toned and naked bodies, their pricks half-hard and growing. And at the center: Hoshi herself, her arms dancing, her body bucking, riding Shotaru while another _bosozoku_ leaned over her. She’d take him in her ass, why not? And another in her mouth, and two more in her hands, and more behind them, and more behind them. She would let them surround her, writhe against her, and she would take them one by one, and when they are all exhausted and wrung dry she would stand up and go looking for more. Why not? She was _gyaru_ now. She was free. She would love who she wanted to love and fuck who she wanted to fuck, and she would never, ever let anyone tell her she was being a Bad Girl.

Shotaru twitched beneath her, a groan escaping his lips. His cock twitched in sympathy, and Hoshi could feel it gushing inside her. His seed filled her, a hot stickiness that rinsed her inner walls and dripped out of her with each thrust. She wasn’t sure if today was a safe day, but she didn’t care. Tomorrow didn’t matter, only today.

Today, she was exhausted. She let out one last high-pitched cry and toppled forward, resting her head against Shotaru’s broad chest. Her blonde hair spilled out across his shoulders. Her breasts, slick with sweat, mashed against his abdominal muscles. He reached up with one trembling arm and stroked her shoulders.

“Hoshi…” he whispered. “Hoshi, that felt incredible. I never thought… a girl like you…”

“Oh, shut up,” she murmured back, but without rancor. “It was fun, ok? Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” he asked. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

Hoshi had practically forgotten about that. She shrugged. “I dunno, Shotaru. We don’t have to think about it right now. You know what I really want?”

He shifted around so that they were looking each other in the eye. He was smitten, she could tell that from a glance. His hard façade had cracked, and he was hers now, wrapped around her little finger. Whatever she asked him to do, he’d do.

“What is it, cherry blossom?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. There was no way she would allow that nickname to stick.

“I want a cigarette.”

***

Himiko made it home somehow. She tottered in on legs that felt as weak as wet noodles, shell-shock written all over her face. Her parents were planted in front of the TV watching some game show, and neither of them gave her a second look. That was alright by Himiko—she wasn’t sure she could even begin to explain what had happened.

She limped upstairs and collapsed on her bed. She wanted to weep, but tears wouldn’t come. Instead she just stared at the ceiling. She’d done it to herself, she realized. That was the worst part of all. She only had herself to blame.

Eventually, she got up the energy to stand up. She needed to change. These clothes were soaked with sweat. She threw open her closet and cringed back at once. The racks and rows of animal-print skirts and plunging V-neck tops stared out at her accusingly. She knew, somehow she just _knew_ , that she’d never wear any of them again. They were tainted now, filthy. They had once been symbols of her freedom and fun-loving personality. Now they were symbols of her humiliation and shame. She didn’t know how she’d ever dressed like that.

She put on a pair of pajamas instead, an ancient pair, worn and threadbare. Her _obaa-chan_ had given them to her years ago. Middle school? It must have been. They barely fit anymore, but there was something comforting about the worn fabric. It was soft, feminine, a pastel shade of pink that she hadn’t let herself wear in years.

She collapsed back onto her bed and pulled out her phone. Normally, at this time of night, she’d be logging into LiveJournal and Tumblr to check out the latest in gal fashions. Instead, she stared at her homepage for a minute or two before reaching up to the URL bar. Slowly, her fingers shaking, she typed in an address she’d only ever seen before. Her phone processed for a moment, and then the page popped up.

“Welcome to Lace Market!” it read. Beneath the header were an array of skirts, dresses and blouses. A day ago, Himiko would have laughed out loud at their ridiculous appearance: floofy, lacy, more like doll clothes than anything a self-respecting woman would wear. Right now, though, they seemed perfect. They called out to her, reminding her of a simpler time, when all she’d cared about was looking as cute as possible.

She clicked first one dress, and then another. And by the time her mother called her down for dinner, she barely heard; she was lost in a world of lace and bows, a smile on her face.


End file.
